Truth crushed to earth shall rise again: Th’ eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
They talk of short-lived pleasures: be it so; pain dies as quickly, and lets her weary prisoner go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mould The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
Weep not that the world changes – did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
Loveliest of lovely things are they On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.